All novelists should live in two different worlds: a real one and an unreal one.
John FowlesRead
We lay on the ground and kissed. Perhaps you smile. That we only lay on the ground and kissed. You young people can lend your bodies now, play with them, give them as we could not. But remember that you have paid a price: that of a world rich in mystery and delicate emotion. It is not only species of animal that die out. But whole species of feeling. And if you are wise you will never pity the past for what it did not know. But pity yourself for what it did.
Interpretation
What this quote means
This quote reflects on the depth of emotional experiences and the sacrifices made in the name of love.
In this poignant quote, John Fowles highlights the significance of emotional connections, suggesting that while the young may enjoy the physical aspects of love without restraint, they must also be aware of the deeper emotional costs associated with such experiences. He warns against taking the richness of feelings for granted, emphasizing that as society evolves, certain emotional depths may fade away, urging the present generation to appreciate the complexities of love and emotion they have access to while recognizing the losses that accompany this liberation.
Themes
LoveEmotionYouthSacrificeMystery
In practice
Example use cases
During a discussion about the nature of love in a literature class, this quote can be used to illustrate the emotional depth of relationships.
More from John Fowles
All quotes →There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common - a need to create an alternative world.
John FowlesRead
I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.
John FowlesRead
Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?
John FowlesRead
The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.
John FowlesRead
It came to me…that I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world at that moment, that what I was feeling at that moment justified all I had been through, because all I had been through was my being there. I was experiencing…a new self-acceptance, a sense that I had to be this mind and this body, its vices and its virtues, and that I had no other chance or choice.
John FowlesRead
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